


The Incredible Finding of Cayman Alloy

by Leaveitbrii



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up and Growing Apart, M/M, Self destructive habits, Slow Build, trapped in rare pair hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaveitbrii/pseuds/Leaveitbrii
Summary: In which Matt moves away, loses friends, nearly loses a limb and somehow still makes time to watch Scooby Doo





	The Incredible Finding of Cayman Alloy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm getting this out and I'm not happy about it lmao
> 
> A companion piece to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8094298/chapters/18547837)

Matt never took himself for the meticulous type and he guesses it’s because he dated Emily for so long. She was always up before the sun, stretching through wordless sighs as if bracing herself, for what, Matt still doesn’t know but if they still talked, he’d thank her.

Matt is up before the sun, always dressed like he’s running from something and he might be, reveling how easy it was, watching the sun poke it’s great big head through lines of sunflowers as it rose, air patchy with heat and his lungs used to scream whenever he’d go out so early but it helped, helped him figure out how to breathe again, figure out where his posture is weak, where his ribs sit inside his body. 

Littery looks different in the morning than LA and Matt’s starting to think he moved here for the fucking quiet because beyond rolls of empty land, tiny houses set up like tokens of another time, there was only him, his breathing and something that felt like infinity, the view stretching out before him like waves of green and yellow. He remembers being worried the first time he moved here, the lingering bud of fear that sets deep in his belly but he’s mostly over it, neighbors nice to him, he’s made friends who think he’s funny, friends who don’t care if he played baseball, friends who don’t care if he stopped.

Five miles used to be difficult for him, when he first moved, when he first was given a brace for his knee and told that he could do light exercises but Matt wasn’t one for light, desperate to find something to keep his mind busy while the rest of him blistered away, pulling back and curdling as his body starved to prove that he wasn’t nothing anymore. They told him to take it easy but said he could run. Five miles, easy. Ten, easier, and the sun greets him every morning, when the sweat begins to roll between his shoulders, and he’s reminded that he’s here, he is something.

This is his routine and it helps, Matt thinks but it’s not like Matt often spends his time standing alone, red cup in one hand, vision blurring colored edges of a freshly pressed American Flag and an orange dart board., however, today is different. Probably because he drank too much, mostly because he drank too much, definitely because he- this taste weird, what’s it called.

“Cranberry vodka. Drink it, you’ll like it.” Tyrone grins, face freckled and red and Matt can’t really hear anything over the heavy bass trembling beneath their feet or the exceptionally loud pulses that ring along his temple and Matt’s not even sure if he’s breathing. He has to be, he’s sure, absently staring into Tyrone’s wary, drunk express before his eyes flicker down to the dark liquid swirling around in the cup that he’s been given, fighting the impressive urge to call an Uber home warring with the fact that he was already here, might as well enjoy it.

It’s not like Matt disliked parties, or Tyrone, quite the opposite, he thinks. Matt knows that the reason he’s here is because A. Patrick Pupsy invited him and Tyrone insisted that he come or else he wasn’t which didn’t make sense because it was Tyrone’s house and B. he didn’t have an actual reason to not come. Matt bites the inside of his lip, gently turns the cup in his hand until he sees a hard glare that might be lighting, might be his reflection but it’s too late to tell because Matt’s throat is already working around it, Tyrone whooping loudly beside him with a loose grin, skin so red it looks like a sun burn.

There’s a girl vomiting in the corner of the room, someone beside her trying to pull a potted plant away from her but it’s too late. There’s a bar set up in the kitchen they’re standing in, pledges mixing drinks for too drunk boys and their girls and Matt sees Jared Kinley wave at him from where he’s chatting on the other side with two girls. Matt lifts a hand in return but doesn’t return the smile. Tyrone laughs loudly, at no one, in regard to nothing and Matt elbows him.

Their first encounter was a lot like this, Matt thinks, looking back, because Matt was invited to a block party and Patrick thought it was funny that Tyrone was white and his last name was Matters and Matt was black with the last name Taylor. It’s funny, was funny, Matt thinks but there’s some borderline ick that keeps getting at him whenever he remembers. But. This is how it was then, Tyrone hanging off his shoulder, unable to hold his own weight, his own liquor and Matt’s been stuck with him ever since. It wasn’t a bad set of circumstances, the only thing that he really doesn’t mind.

Matt takes another drink offered to him, downs it.

He doesn’t know why he’s here, imagines being holed up in his apartment watching reruns of the original Scooby Doo as he tried to finish putting together that puzzle that Ashley sent him for his birthday. Shit. He should call her.

“Man, I think...” Tyrone leans in and Matt sucks in a sharp breath, ready to dip as soon as Tyrone opens his mouth. Tyrone tilts his head back, nostrils flexing and then his head is rolling back down with a wide smile and Matt decides it’s time to go.

“Alright.” Matt mutters, placing a hand on Tyrone’s shoulder. “Let’s go, bud.”

“Hey. Hey.” Tyrone belches wetly. “You can’t... possibly tell me where we are going.”

“You’re going upstairs. I’m heading out.” 

Tyrone looks wounded, fanning his hand across his face like he’s trying to shoo away Matt’s decision. He takes a shaky step back, locks his knees straight and places his hands on his hips triumphantly, the cup he was holding pouring dark liquid down his leg. Tyrone doesn’t register it, jeans creasing as liquid spreads along it.

Matt levels him with a look, lips thinning into a grimace. 

“Let the man drink, Taylor!” There’s a voice in his ear, a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing and then it pushes slightly, Patrick’s face popping in to view and honestly, Matt had prayed that he wouldn’t have to see this man but it was Tyrone’s house and Patrick did live here so the only person Matt can blame is his fucking self.

“’Sup, man.” Matt greets, hoarse, can’t seem to hear himself but Patrick nods like Matt asked him an assortment of reasonable questions and squeezes Matt’s shoulder a bit harder and leans back, Matt studying him with a hesitant look as Tyrone pushes another drink in his hands, clapping Patrick on the elbow and Patrick grins.

“Reminds me of the good ole days, except Taylor here didn’t drink as much.” Patrick says, exhaling sour air and that notion was already hilarious because the “good ole day” wasn’t even a year old yet. “Guess we all have our reasons. How is your, you know- “

“You’re being a dick already, man.” Tyrone interrupts, mustering a look of disapproval and Patrick immediately clams up, agitation ringing across his face before he ducks his head, hand dropping from Matt’s shoulder. “Don’t come over here if you’re…” Tyrone wobbles, drooling a bit. “Just don’t, bro.”

“It’s okay, man.” Matt says, holding up his cup. “It’s the past. We’re here to celebrate how good you are at leading the team, captain.”

Tyrone sputters, face growing even darker as he scratches the back of his head, brow furrowing as a smile breaks across his face and that’s it, that’s all Matt has to do, what he’s always been good at, deterring a situation, stopping a fight, too soft, too nice, that’s what she said. No, that wasn’t a joke, Matt can almost feel himself sigh, hearing the quiet bicker of an old conversation burrowing in the back of his mind. He wonders how she’s doing, heard about that incredible, epic downfall of Emily Davis but it’s not like they were friends, not like Matt was friends with any of them anymore except Ashley, Hannah and surprisingly Mike, who was with Jess, who Matt never actually talked to but they’ve exchanged enough texts that Matt is pretty sure he’s invited to that wedding whenever it happens.

But. Matt hadn’t heard from anyone else, didn’t really reach out or anything, their last moments spent passing a dirty bong on the Washington patio, underneath an eclipse. Matt blinks, subconsciously tapping his thumb along his thigh, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth and he looks up to see Patrick laughing at something Tyrone had said and Matt cuts through them, gesturing vaguely to the direction of the downstairs bathroom and stumbles out of the kitchen, spotting the house plant covered on one side in vomit.

There’s a flight of stairs that settle along the edge of Tyrone’s living room, people packed on the couches, in the corners, air sour and stank and it seems to turn the room a weird shade of hazy pink. Matt thinks he’s just being fake deep, what a weird word, phrase, what, stairs. His left knee feels like it’s trying to bounce out of his skin as he climbs the stairs, ignoring a familiar beginning buzz of pain and Matt doesn’t know why he didn’t just go out the front door but it’s too late now and the balcony is right there, those navy French doors, French doors that Emily would’ve loved but would never admit. 

Matt pushes himself out them, the cold air hitting his face with a crisp clarity that reminds him of the sea, waves breaking along the beach, a hand in his, running along sand and warmth. Matt curls his fingers along the smooth railing, door snapping closed behind him and the silence rolls into a high ringing noise as he inhales. His skin feels sweaty, heavy like it wants to slide off his bones and meld into the ground. 

“Ah.” Matt doesn’t mean to speak or say anything but he does and it almost startles him, eyes searching quiet suburbia for a cure to the way his shoulders keep pinching together too tight. He takes a moment, finds his lungs and lets his heart beat into his ears and sighs, slouching down into his arms, feet trying to stay steady and firm. The smell of cigarettes hits him first, then the heat that swats away the cool air into something stagnant, something heavy.

“Have you ever read of a book called Cayman Alloy?” 

Matt jumps, startled, nerves bundling together into a knot that makes his spine go straight and he looks to his left, that voice too familiar, still gravely and slow like churning molasses and Josh doesn’t smile, simply tilts the bottle he’s holding, fingers knobby and long and Matt can’t find any words to say because here, in the middle of Iowa’s suburban nowhere, between semesters and summer sun is Josh Washington.

“If you’re going to puke, I found a great bush right there, bro.” Josh points but Matt doesn’t look, throat feeling thick and full. “Something rock bottom about puking over the balcony of a house that’s worth less than 11k.”

Josh takes a swig of his drink as Matt’s vomit splatters on the balcony floor.

 

\--

“You found Josh?” Ashley sounds amazed and healthy as if all those meal prep smoothies finally caught up with her, face a bit rounder, bit more full and Matt can see glimpses of Sam passing around Ashley’s apartment. Matt doesn’t ask but he wants too, instead leans back in his chair, quilts wrapped around his legs and Ashley already made a comment about how he looked like a grandpa.

“It’s not like I was looking for him.” Matt replies, pointing a spoon of Cheerios at his computer screen, Ashley scribbling down something in her notebook. He glances back up at his TV screen, PS4 whirring loudly from dust and overuse as Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost plays on mute. Matt can hear Ashley’s fingers clicking along the keyboard of her computer, his clock ticking away on the wall. He hung up a tapestry recently, dark orange with an assortment of crude flower drawings printed on it, because Ashley said his apartment was boring last time she visited. 

“Who moves to Iowa?” Ashley asks and Matt looks down at her, watching the way her nose scrunches up, round glasses sliding down her nose. “No offense. I gotta tell Chris.”

“Taken.” Matt replies, stirring his cereal around lazily. He considers for a moment. If Chris didn’t know where Josh was, maybe it was because Josh didn’t want him to. “Maybe he wanted quiet. Maybe don’t tell Chris.”

Ashley seems to understand. “Still. In Iowa?” 

“The level of offense I’m taking is starting to pay rent.” Matt says and Ashley laughs, leaning onto her arms, chin tucked into the curve of her elbow as she sighs. Matt thinks Ashley’s the only person he’s ever known to not care about silences, settles in them like its easy and Matt tries to do the same, walks around his apartment with no music on, doesn’t sing in the shower and somehow, it’s helped him feel more human.

“How’s the knee?”

“Fine. It’s been fine.” Matt replies, setting his bowl on a nearby end table. He wants to ask her to stop asking but the request withers in his brain. “Thanks for the chair. It’s comfy, too comfy.”

Matt doesn’t tell her that it’s the most natural thing in his apartment, the least artificial, something that had a home and was loved and taken care of.

“Didn’t you threaten me with bodily harm if I didn’t give it to you?”

Matt hums, “Doesn’t sound like anything I’d do.”

“So, this message never happened?” Ashley asks, brow furrowing, a sly smile on her face as she scrolls through her phone. She clears her throat, making a show of flipping her red, red hair and settles back. “Ash, I swear to god if you don’t give me that damn chair I will end you. End me? That’s so… expressive, Matthew. Would you like to talk about these words? This E-N-D word that you’ve sent me every day until I drove with my own car and my own gas money to nice, cozy Iowa to give you a handy me down chair with a ratty old cushion.”

Matt feigns innocence. “Sounds like something I’d never do and I gave you gas money to go back and you said no!”

“Oh?” Ashley blinks quickly, cheesing. “I thought you didn’t know what I was talking about.”

Matt finds himself laughing, ready to snark a comment when a knock comes to his front door. He frowns, mouth still hanging open and Ashley shuffles noisily from the computer. Matt searches for his phone to no avail, trying to remember if he invited anyone over today but it’s not like Matt remembers most of last night in general so if he did, it’s his own fault. 

Another series of knocks and Ashley groans, “Get the door, rude. You have guests. Company will be good for you. I’ll talk to you later ok?”

“But I didn’t invite anyone over?” Matt asks but he’s already struggling out of his seat, quilts pooling to his waist in a wave of knots and folds. He lifts his Mac up, trying to twist his way out of the mess he’s found himself in and accidentally knocks into the end table, body stilling to a painful halt as the cereal bowl titters dangerously. It moves a bit, close to the edge, too close and Matt brings the computer level with face, Ashley cackling at his expression.

“I gotta go.” Matt deadpans.

“Bye.” Ashley giggles, clicking away at her computer, the empty blank screen staring back at him a moment later, reflection tired, haggard almost and Matt closes the lid, carefully turning to place the computer in his seat and moves the bowl back to the center of the table. More knocks and Matt manages to detangle himself, limping his way out of his spot and to the narrow hallway that leads to the door. His letterman jacket hangs up in the foyer, has been since he moved here, since the accident and it’s always interesting to see how things change, how things don’t cross your mind anymore.

Matt unlocks the door, slides the latch and twists the knob and pulls, squinting at the change of lighting. He stares into someone’s back, bold words that read Misery, Don’t Know ‘er written on the back of a navy souvenir jacket, praying hands stitched underneath with a gold trim. There’s a brown bag in one hand, folded neatly up but the sides are wrinkled. The person turns before Matt speaks, Josh’s face appearing in the guise of an easy smile, cheeks hollow, lips bitten up and peeling and Matt whistles.

Josh winces, “That bad huh? I’m trying to stop smoking.”

Matt considers asking what the fuck that has to do with Josh looking like shit but that’s not his business and Josh has always talked like he expects no one to call him out on his shit. Frankly, no one ever has. Matt steps aside, waits until Josh wanders inside before closing the door, twisting the lock, sliding the latch back in place.

“Might not even be staying that long, bro.” Josh comments, shrugging off his jacket, the shirt underneath dark grey and clean, simple. He hangs up his jacket, tucking the brown bag under his arm.

Matt stares at him. “You always stay long. If my mom knew you were coming over she’d plan for three days, man. Three.”

“Not my fault your mom thought I was the most courteous, most charming high school boy she ever met.” Josh chuckles, motioning Matt to follow like this was his apartment, like the year it’s been since they last talked meant nothing, was nothing, just silence. Matt follows, feeling suddenly self-conscious of how lack luster his apartment was. There was a table for two settled underneath his window, kitchen bland and as empty as his cabinets and fridge were, Ashley’s old chair sitting in the center of the living room, a couch, his TV, his orange tapestry.

“I like this.” Josh comments, looking around. “I hated visiting Chris or Hannah, always too much going on like there wasn’t enough stuff to express how they are. That’s what they say about homes, it’s an extension of a person. But this. It’s nice.”

“What?” Matt frowns, unsure how to feel.

Josh waves off the question, sends Matt a smile like even if he had a response it wouldn’t matter and plops down on Matt’s couch, hands holding the bag up with determined eyes. “Brought burritos. The good, greasy kind although you are wearing that hang over like a fucking champ, bro.”

Matt isn’t about to tell Josh Washington that he only slept two hours last night and that his constant state of feeling is like a different type of hangover. Shit, Matt doesn’t even know how he got home. He doesn’t say anything, tapping his thumb along his thigh and moves to gather his quilts from the floor, setting his Mac to the side before settling down with a sigh that feels more heavy than it should. Matt stares at the TV, Scooby Doo steadily playing and looks over at Josh, who is looking at him, eyes briefly flickering down to Matt’s left leg then to the TV.

Matt smooths one of the quilts over his legs, staring intently at the dark long scar that moves along his knee until it disappears under blue and red and patterned white lines. 

“I think it’s been two years since I watched Scooby anything.” Josh says aloud, like he can hear the way Matt’s hands keep flexing into hard fists. “I got cheese and steak with salsa, extra queso, black beans and um, a lot of shit.”

“Just give me the goods, Washington.”

“No reason to be this way, Mattat.” 

Fuck, Matt hasn’t heard that name in years and he takes the burrito offered to him, the aluminum foil its wrapped in warm and smooth, fat like the ends of a pickle jar. Matt unwraps it slowly, glancing around for the PS4 controller and the remote but Josh already has them in his lap. 

“How’d you find my place?”

Josh lifts an eyebrow at him, taking a large bite of his burrito. “I brought you home, bro. That one dude, with the, what’s it called? He’s got freckles.”

“Tyrone?” Matt squints. “The white dude?”

“Yeeeah.” Josh says around a mouthful. “That dude. He gave me your address.”

Matt slouches in his seat. “That’s safe.”

“Right? Glad I’m not here to murder you.” Josh laughs, hitting the volume back on.

Matt looks down at his burrito, it’s pale fleshy form, the way it kind of sinks in on itself and leans into take a bite. He exhales loudly, savoring the taste, salsa fighting its way down his chin but that’s okay, it’s good, it’s so damn good. It then dawns on him that Ashley was right. 

“Why are you here, man?” Matt asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin Josh offers.

Josh shrugs, doesn’t look thoughtful or insightful, just lifts his shoulders with something lazy in his face and he drags his eyes up to meet Matt’s, dark and empty, listless like his very existence will die with the answer.

“Got nothin’ better to do.” Josh tells him and it’s a lie, they both know it. “We watchin’ this?”

Matt can’t think of anything better to do.

\--

Josh joins him in the morning, hands dangling by his sides like he’s trying to even out his weight, eyes narrowed and bloodshot and he looks at the long stretch of road Matt runs like it’s going to murder him. He regards it tiredly, then Matt, and shrugs, folding his arms across his chest with another yawn. Matt had told him he got up before the sun did, to run and Josh didn’t seem to not believe him, rolled off the couch when Matt shook him awake.

Ashley had clowned the hell out of him, asking if Matt was going to take anymore strays and why was everybody sleeping on everybody else’s couch. She told him that Emily was staying with Chris and Matt told her that he didn’t care. 

“We doin’ this, bro?” Josh inquires, suppressing a yawn, jaw trembling in response as his presses his lips into a thin line.

“I run 10 miles every morning.”

Josh makes a noise but doesn’t protest, rolling his head along his shoulders as Matt regards him, stretching out widely. They exchange a look and Matt tilts his head, Josh waving a hand in response and Matt takes off, catching the edge of blue that has started to spread against the sky. He hardly thinks about anything, blood pumping through his limbs, making them warm and he feels like liquid, something close to air, wind sliding along his face in that way it does. 

His doctor told him to take it easy but all Matt heard was that he wouldn’t be able to play anymore, until he got better, if he got better and that didn’t guarantee anything. Matt’s starting to think he didn’t want to get better, thinks he already was and this was just him realizing that he can’t go back, doesn’t want to go back. Matt swallows thickly, a ball nesting in the back of his throat and Matt shakes his head, focusing on the sounds of his feet hitting pavement, the wind on his face and breathes, lungs feeling so full, so bright with energy.

This was his routine.

Matt finds Josh on his way back, when the sun decides to rest at the edge of the sky, Josh on the ground, arms stretched out behind him as he pants heavily, head lolled to the side, beads of sweat sliding down his neck in lazy motions. Josh notices him, giving Matt a weak smile as he turns, light catching the contours of his face, eyes bright and baggy and Matt swallows, slowing down to a stop. 

“Kicked my own ass, man.” Josh groans, falling back on the ground, arms lifting to tuck his hands behind his head. He stares up at the sky, expression empty, almost peaceful. “I can see why you do this every morning.”

“Yeah.” Matt breathes, staring down at Josh.

“I don’t think I could.” Josh says. “I hate that feeling. You know the one where you know life is moving on without you and refuses to wait. It doesn’t give you a chance to grow, to think. It keeps moving.” Josh cracks a smile. “I wanted the world to move on without me and now I’m wishing it stopped.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. He moves over to where Josh lays and moves to sit down, chest steadily rising and falling, sweat cooling along his skin in beads and Josh turns his gaze from the sky to Matt, eyes amber in the light, skin golden and Matt averts his eyes, turning to the line of sunflowers that stretch out before them, some wilting and dead, others growing tall, seeds bright black. 

“How did you end up here?” Matt asks.

“Have you ever been to Montana? It’s boring as shit.” Josh laughs.

Matt looks at him. “So is Iowa.”

Josh meets his gaze, tongue darting out to wet his lips and he moves to sit up, a hand moving up to push his hair back. “Yeah.”

“You talk to Chris?”

“I don’t want to talk to him.” Josh tells him, sounding tired, exhausted even. “There’s nothing to talk about. This is coping. I’m coping.”

Matt wants to ask what happened between them but it’s not his business and Josh is already looking away as if the conversation is over, eyes boring into the crook of the sky, a soft smile on his face and Matt finds himself staring. He turns his head, staring at the tops of his knees, one graced with a long dark scar. 

“I am too.” Matt says quietly. “Coping.”

“Beth said you’d be good to talk to.” Josh tells him, head still turned. “Even though our situations aren’t the same. You’ve never been one to pry anyway.”

Josh looks like he wants to say more, jaw twitching like he’s rolling words around his mouth that he’s not sure how to speak. Matt doesn’t say anything, wants to ask again why Josh was here, what he wanted, and Josh rolls his shoulders back, slumping down and he turns, expression soft in the burning sun, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. He smiles, crooked, familiar and Matt realizes he’s not breathing.

He doesn’t know what that means.

“Man.” Josh says suddenly, sitting up straight. “It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot.”

Matt feels the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Yeah, it does that.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Josh gasps, eyes going wide. He hobbles to his feet, grumbling the entire time, back audibly popping as he stretches, shirt lifting just so to graze along the curve of his stomach and Matt turns away, trying hard not to clear his throat. A deep chuckle resonates through the air and Matt flushes with heat, squinting at the hand suddenly offered to him, Josh’s amused smirk at the end.

Matt takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you hear the long sigh I just let out? Me too.
> 
> I used my dad as my knee references considering he has had 6 knee replacements, 3 per knee.


End file.
